


Pyrolysis

by Audriss



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Arson, Crime, Detectives, Enemies, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Firefighters, Gen, Inspired, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23754604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Audriss/pseuds/Audriss
Summary: It's the fifth anniversary of the fiery inferno of the Greene Farm. Beth is determined to find out who torched the place.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Beth Greene
Comments: 14
Kudos: 16





	Pyrolysis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inappropriatefangirlneeds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inappropriatefangirlneeds/gifts).



He laid on the slab in a humiliating hospital gown, staring at the ceiling of the CT scanner. 

The tube was tight, making him feel slightly claustrophobic as his shoulders seemed to be squeezed against the curved walls, and the scanner was noisy; there was whirring all around him. But it’s not the tightness or the electronic sounds that were making him nervous on the inside.

He laid still, though. 

It’s a routine scan, at least that’s what the doctor told him, that just like everyone on this job he, too, got exposed to all kinds of chemicals and other vicious materials that might make him receptive to diseases that might affect lungs.

He felt the nervous tick on his leg, but he willed himself to lay still.

His mind raced, twenty million miles an hour and then some. 

There have been three firefighters he knew that had been diagnosed with an asbestos lung. He knew how it progresses. He’d seen it up close and personal through a mentor, and he were determined that he was not going to be one of them. 

The scanner whirred for a long time, before it slowly quieted down and stopped. He wondered if he was allowed to stand up, but he was deep in the tube and he had got really no other choice but to lay still as long as they were going to keep him inside of it. 

After a moment, one that felt like forever and a day, he started to chew his cheek and huffed deep.

“Mr. Dixon,” he heard someone speak outside the scanner, and then the slab he’s laying on started to move. He emerged from the tube almost unscathed; it’s mostly his pride that has been injured for having to wear a hospital gown.

“You may get dressed,” the doctor said, flipping through some papers in his folder, and gestured towards the door to the small room where he left his clothes. 

He didn’t look at him, and Daryl couldn’t figure out if it was a good or bad news, or if the poor bastard was just too damn busy for his own good. Maybe he had a wrong file to begin with.

He got dressed in a revered silence, only slightly concerned that it might be bad news. When he was done, he emerged from the small dressing room, and a nurse – a pretty little thing – batted her eyelashes at him, flipping her brown hair and flashing her pearly white teeth, as she guided him back into the doctor’s office at the end of the hall.

He was unflappable over the attempts made by the pretty nurse and grunted a reply that distantly resembled a ‘thank you’ as she closed the door with a sigh, and Daryl sat down.

His leg began to bounce in a matter of seconds, slowly, almost unnoticed at first, as he waited for the doctor to show up.

Fifteen minutes passed; the doc didn’t seem to be in a hurry. He took his sweet time to finally show up into his office.

He sat behind his large, dark desk, looking distant and less of a person with good bedside manners. He spread open the folder and looked up at Daryl.

“Mr. Dixon,” he said, with that annoyingly peppy tone the doctors around the world seemed to use to get their patients’ attention, like they’ve done something wrong. It gave Daryl a quick flashback back to his school years and he shifted in his seat awkwardly.

“Yeah,” Daryl barked a surly reply, then.

“We’ll get the results of the scans tomorrow, but today, we can talk about the other tests,” Doctor Stevens continued with that smug tone and turned his attention to the papers in his folder.

“Great,” another one syllable reply. Daryl’s leg bounced and he chewed his bottom lip, as he continued to fiddle with his fingers, cracking the knuckles and popping the joints, waiting for the doctor to continue.

“A man of few words,” Doctor Stevens said, and then looked up at Daryl rather sternly, “All the test results are good, and you’re a healthy man, despite few scrapes and bruises you’ve gotten from work. What I’m worried about is your smoking.”

* * *

He killed the engine of his bike, but stayed seated for few quiet moments. 

He slid his keys into the pocket of his leather jacket and the stood up and shrugged his shoulders as he adjusts his jacket and the leather vest of his. 

He meandered inside the Firehouse, finding it, for the first time, very hard to do so. 

The trucks were all in place. He glanced at the engine and the squad trucks, all ready for an emergency call. He turned his head to the left, and saw the ambulance and the Chief’s car were also in place. Still chewing the inside of his cheek rather painfully, he suspected there hasn’t been an alarm while he was at the doctor. That would be good. He would hate to be the reason his comrades were sent onto a call understaffed. He didn’t want to think about it, but sometimes he’s glad there’s a lull while on a shift. 

Few of the men, were playing cards, but he ignored them, as he sauntered over to the Chief’s office. He knew he wanted an update about the doctor’s visit.

He knocked onto the door frame, hovering at the entryway before the Chief saw him, and gestured him to enter.

“So, lil’ brother?” his brother, Merle Dixon, Battalion Chief of the Fire Station 8 asked, and with a nod of his head he suggested that Daryl closed the door behind him. 

He did, and then walked onto the seat opposite Merle, giving him a flashback of the doctor’s office. This time, though, he didn’t have to wait. Merle was already all over his issues and it irritated Daryl to no end.

“’s all good,” Daryl shrugged his shoulders, “Gettin’ them scan results tomorrow. Doc was bitchin’ about smokin’ though.”

Merle huffed and wiped his chin, leaning back in his leather chair, “Yeah, what does he know? Probably drinks and bangs hookers whenever he gets the chance.”

Daryl didn’t reply, his face as emotionless as a marble statue and lips pressed into a tight line.

He knew Merle, and he knew it would have been pointless to tell him that the doc is most definitely correct. 

Smoking was bad, and it was bad for him, and it doesn’t help with his fitness reports the City demanded every so often. He also knew it was an exposing risk when on a job, and having to inhale smoke to already smoke damaged lungs. His options were slim pickings, though. He had started in his teens and it was harder to quit as he grew older.

“When you get your results, let me know,” Merle said, a definitive tone in his words and Daryl stood up, nodding, before he walked out of the office and into his locker room to get changed as quickly as possible. 

When he walked to the floor, he saw Abe and Martinez talking by their truck and acknowledged them by bobbing his head. 

Instead of going to them, he walked over to Heath who was doing his best poker hustler moves on their newest candidate, Jimmy. He didn’t want to get sucked into that one either, so he just quickly headed outside and hid behind the dumpster, where he usually spent time when he felt the need to be alone. 

Leaning against the wall he sighed deep, tilted his head back and closed his eyes. 

Anxiety and nervousness took over his body in two seconds flat, and his eyes flew open and, as if to find an outlet to the uncertainty inside of him, he slammed his fist against the sandblasted wall of the building. He could feel it, the coarse wall texture scraping his knuckles raw, his skin tearing under the contact and blood trickling to the surface. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling his hand closer for inspection, and then pulled a rag from his back pocket wiping the blood slowly off his hand. 

Yeah, maybe the CT scan did affect him. 

Because right now he’s more nervous about the results of those scans than he is about the thirty minute lecture the doctor put him through about the hazards of smoking. 

* * *

The night at the Firehouse was uneventful, no calls, no disturbances, no nothing. 

It’s the longest night he’s ever had to endure. 

He would have happily welcomed a long call, that would have lasted all night long, but nothing was going on in the neighborhood. Possibly a blessing, anyway, for the people. 

But still, the quiet forced him to sit on the couch, and catch up with his paperwork.

He hated it. 

He hated pushing papers, writing down mission reports, pretending that he’s at least somewhat professional about this; a leader, a bureaucrat, an exemplary. Of course, if he didn’t hate it, or could take it in a professional manner, he wouldn’t have three weeks worth of paperwork to be done in the first place.

He twiddled with the pen in his hand and sighed deeply before he shoved the papers off his lap, brushing his fingers in a fluid motion through his dark, unruly hair. His head hang down as he rested his arms over his knees, and he closed his eyes. 

The next two days were his days off. 

He’d been planning on going to the woods to hunt some big game, calm himself down. The only thing screwing with his brain right now was the wait for the results. 

Results.

He couldn’t figure out why it took so long to interpret some pictures. It’s not like he didn’t get reamed already for his smoking. 

“Jesusfuck,” he groaned again, throwing the papers aside completely and stood up. He walked into the kitchen, sauntering over to the fridge, opening the door with a swift motion but frowning again at the sight of the content of it. 

Irish fucking pizzas.

He truly hoped they’d get a new candidate soon because their current one is a travesty when it came to cooking. 

He felt his stomach flip, honestly something that has never happened to him, at the sight of the container on the shelf, and closes the door quickly before he’d throw up. 

They definitely should get Jimmy out of here, if they were planning on eating properly. 

The boy was a pretty decent candidate, though, eager to please and happy to do what ever he's told. He ought to find a girl to teach him to cook. Or a guy. Fuck if he knew what the boy liked.

Either way, the food situation in their kitchen was the last nail in the coffin for him and he planned on going hunting if he'll get the doctor's call early.

* * *

She’d done it again; sat by her desk all night. 

It was earlier than when she'd normally crawl into the office. The rising sun’s rays streamed through the dusty, slightly dirty windows of the second-floor office of the building as she reached for the steaming cup of coffee on her disarrayed table. 

“Steaming hot” wasn’t exactly the correct word to describe the coffee from the vending machine but it was better than the sludge Otis loved to brew in the kitchen of the department.

Only a little under five hours of sleep left her wanting, desiring, coffee in an IV. 

She’d been going through the cold cases that had been abandoned in their storage for quite some time now, and she knew she was too damn far down in the foxhole to give up now. 

“Hey, Greene,” her partner, Shane Walsh, greeted as he ambled over to his desk, opposite to hers and dropped his bag onto the counter. 

“Morning,” she replied, and took a sip of her coffee, resting her cheek against her palm. Her face squished and her lips pouted out as a result. Her blonde hair was tied to a messy bun, with few loose strands framing her narrow face. Her tortoise shell colored glasses rested low on her nose.

“Shit, girl, you’ve been at it again, haven’t you?” Walsh asked, growling a little, out of disappointment. 

She noticed him looking around them at the almost empty office; most of the shift hadn’t showed up at work yet or they were loitering downstairs. It made her scoff a little, but she didn’t give a damn about who might hear. He had tried to get her to stop before. He had actually tried to help her as well. He had pretty much done it all but walked over to their Captain and told him to order the pretty blonde detective to stop working the old cases.

She looked at Walsh again, taking another sip of her coffee and deduced he wanted her committed, too.

He would be within in his rights to do so, to be quite frank. She looked at the dark haired man standing in front of his desk, and tilted her head. 

“It’s my free time, Walsh,” she countered – which has become a regular answer of hers when it came to these cases, “Shouldn’t bother you so much.”

“Yeah? You’re my partner, Beth,” Shane sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and squeezing his eyes shut, “What affects you, affects me!” he hissed at her, and slams his fist onto the counter, sitting down in the wake of the emphatic, and rather pompous, gesture.

Her mouth pressed into a tight line, as she glared at the man. His dark brown hair, brown eyes, and rough, boxer like features were a total opposite to her blue eyes and blonde hair, with an eternally hopeful aura to her, despite the current frown on her face. Their differences, in both appearance and tactics, had proved to be a working approach for the duo when it came to investigation and interrogating suspects. The testosterone filled bangers never saw it coming when she entered the interrogation room and smiled at them.

“I know why you go through these cases, Greene,” Shane then replied, sighing, “And dammit, I so understand.”

Of course she knew he knew why she does this – going through the old arson cases, the old missing person cases and anything that might have helped her cause, even the old accidental fire cases – but, it was her thing, her investigation. It was hers on her free time.

“Look, I ain’t gonna butt in, Blondie, you know that, but hell, you gotta get some sleep! You look like the dead warmed all over!”

She shrugged, pushed her glasses up on her nose, brought the cup of coffee up to her lips again and took another long sip from the cup, drinking the liquid like it’s nectar of the gods.

“Whatever, Walsh,” she replied slowly.

Shane groaned and spread his arms in a gesture or surrender, rolled his eyes, and turned his attention over to the screen of his computer, slamming the keyboard like he was going to dismantle the entire machine over a little disagreement with his partner.

* * *

The noon rolls around, after an uneventful night, and Daryl was ready to leave the Firehouse at the end of the shift, when he got the dreaded phone call from his doctor.

Of course, the doctor started with small talk, and went to remind him about the dangers of smoking. He kept humming halfhearted answers and mumbled in agreement. He even agreed to try and quit smoking, on the record. Probably a big mistake.

Doctor Stevens ushered him to book another appointment, about the smoking obviously, before he cleared his throat and moved less daintily over to the results of the CT scan. 

“About the results of your scans,” he started, “After reviewing them, I can tell you there’s no indication of asbestos in your lungs. Mostly, all the damage that has happened in the past is due to smoking. As you might well know.” 

“Yeah.”

“And being a fireman, it’s not uncommon that you have some smoke inhalation damage as well.”

“Mhh-mhh,” he grumbled in a reply, feeling a wave of relief washing over him.

“But, I must still recommend that we will take follow up scans once a year to rule out any possibility of any asbestos related lung diseases like asbestosis, mesothelioma or lung cancer.”

**Author's Note:**

> Probably full of mistakes. Also, I will update this irregularly, until I can manage to wrangle up my muse and finish my mystery/thriller/crime fic [By Any Other Name](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13243773/chapters/30294117).


End file.
